They lowered their heads, praying not only for my soul but for the soul of the boy who had killed me. Tragedy, the women said, shaking their heads as they pinned clothes to the lines, just enough sun touching them to bleach away the smell of the lye soap.Ī terrible thing, said our village priests, and priests as far as the gossip traveled. John Rand had been known as a horse thief since he was fifteen, so while the nearby villages may have been horrified to hear he had killed me, they were also unsurprised.
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